


Fireworks

by glyphsbowtie



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: First Kiss, Idiots in Love, M/M, Spoilers, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 07:31:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16593545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glyphsbowtie/pseuds/glyphsbowtie
Summary: "Fireworks,” Arthur says, the words hoarse against John's lips, and it takes John a moment to realise that he's explaining why he smells of gunpowder.





	Fireworks

**Author's Note:**

> Very minor spoilers for the mission The Gilded Cage.

John notices the dinner jacket and satin gloves before Arthur Morgan leaves for the party. Of course he fucking notices. Arthur is always beautiful, handsome in a strong, relentless way, but there's something about his thick body in that jacket that makes John have to resist the urge to sigh with longing.

Arthur looks amazing. There's pomade in his hair, he's trimmed his facial hair and he's grinning broadly as he crosses to the carriage with Dutch, laughing loudly.

John is sitting alone, drinking a bottle of whisky and watching everyone else. He's been in a bad mood of late, questioning everything and feeling lost, and seeing Arthur looking so dapper hasn't done anything to set the world back on its axis.

After the carriage pulls away, John waits ten minutes, then follows his feet up to Arthur's bedroom.

He's been coming up here a lot recently, making sure that it's when Arthur isn't likely to return. He doesn't really fancy explaining himself to the grumpy asshole. He's still not quite sure he's ready to explain it to himself.

But he  _ knows,  _ really, what it is that keeps sending him up here. They've been here a few days, in yet another miserable camp, this time with this decaying house in the middle, and, as always, Morgan's section of it is the centre of John's universe.

Maybe he should feel guilty. He's not with Abigail, hasn't been for a long time, but they're still a unit, a family with their son. He dreads to think what she'd say if she knew.

Arthur's room smells of pomade and cigars. It's a fucking mess. John trails his fingers across the brim of Arthur's hat, then lifts it and sits down on the bed, exhaling.

This isn't good, is it?

-

John wakes in the dark to the feeling of satin gloves on his chin. Arthur Morgan's thick fingers are wrapped roughly around it, shaking it. John stares up at him, at his handsome face bathed in the moonlight streaming in the smeared window. Arthur looks fucking baffled.

“Marston, what are you doing?” he asks, and his voice is deep, his breath scented with whisky and smoke.

“I fell asleep,” John says, and he's blushing furiously, well aware of the fact he has to get out of here without revealing the truth. He's known Arthur since they were little more than kids. This isn't right.

“Yeah, no shit, Johnny boy,” Arthur chuckles. He doesn't seem angry at finding John in his bed, more mildly bemused. “I was enquiring more about the circumstances which led to you falling asleep in  _ my  _ bed, specifically.”

“I, er, well,” John says. Great.

“Right, well glad we cleared that up,” Arthur replies cheerfully, releasing John's chin and stepping back. He's allowing John the space to leave.

John sighs. What a fucking idiot he is. Of course,  _ of course  _ Arthur isn't interested in him. For starters, he almost certainly doesn't like men. And if he does, he probably doesn't like ones with mangled faces like John. John was ugly even before the accident, whereas Arthur looks like a painting, a piece of art.

He stands up, and Arthur's hat drops loudly to the floor.

“Say, Marston,” Arthur says, looking at it, “were you cuddling my hat?”

“Fuck off, Morgan,” John says, because there's really nothing else he can say.

Arthur is on him then, his substantial mass of muscle pressing John back into the wall before John even has a chance to react. Arthur's laughing, playfully, his hands on John's, pinning them against the peeling paint. They used to do this sort of thing all the time, play fighting with each other.

Of course, back then, Arthur Morgan wasn't dressed in a dinner jacket, bathed in moonlight with his eyes burning down with sudden intensity at John. It's not that John's small- he isn't- but he's always felt delicate next to Arthur, and now Arthur is standing so close that John could count the strands of his neatly trimmed beard.

“You smell of gunpowder,” John says, and the words come out strangled.

Arthur kisses him. It's tentative, unsure, like he doesn't know if John is going to punch him or not. John, of course, is going to do no such thing; his fingers tangle in the soft, pomade-coated lengths of Arthur's hair, and he deepens the kiss, dipping his tongue into Arthur's mouth and relishing in the contrast of Arthur's surprisingly soft lips and unsurprising scratchy beard. Arthur's hands come up to cradle John's face, the tender action at odds with the insistent press of his lips and the thick, hard length brushing John's thigh through their trousers.

“Fireworks,” Arthur says, the words hoarse against John's lips, and it takes John a moment to realise that he's explaining why he smells of gunpowder.

They are kissing again, and this time clothes are pulled away, roughly. The jacket goes fluttering to the ground, then Arthur's waistcoat and shirt, and then finally he's topless in front of John, the familiar expanse of his muscled, hairy chest and stomach at the ends of John's explorative fingertips.

John's shirt comes off next, shredded by Arthur, and then trousers and boots go falling to the ground before they are both naked.

They've been naked in front of each other many times, but never like this, never hard and throbbing and desperate for each other.

They fall onto Arthur's bed, Arthur's fingers brushing John's tangled hair back from his face before he kisses him again.

“Morgan,” John manages. “Will you kindly-?”

And then Arthur is  _ touching  _ him, those rough, calloused fingers awkwardly and uncertainly stroking John's length. He's clearly never done this before, but it's good, and it doesn't matter, because Arthur Fucking Morgan is stroking his cock. Pleasure ripples through John, who bucks his hips and drags Arthur's mouth back down to his to kiss him deeply.

As John grows closer to finishing, he reaches out and takes hold of Arthur's thick, heavy cock. It feels like burning velvet, and John works it gently, delighting in the strangled, rough moan it teases out of Arthur.

They finish almost at the same moment, bodies tensing and rocking wantonly against each other. John breathes in the scent of Arthur's throat as he grinds out a moan.

Afterwards, they lie curled around each other, and it's clear that this bed isn't really wide enough for two large guys. John is pressed right against the wall, and he rather suspects that Arthur is hanging off the edge of the bed.

“I'm sorry,” Arthur mumbles in his ear.

John glares at him in the darkness. “You're  _ sorry?”  _ he repeats. Not really the words he's fantasised about Arthur saying after something like this.

Arthur groans. “I pounced on you. You just looked so… oh, fuck, John, I don't know.”

“Did I  _ seem _ unwillin’ to you, Morgan?” John asks, and the words come out half-exasperated, half-amused.

Arthur considers the question, the ass. “I guess not,” he says slowly. “I thought… well, I wondered if wanting this was why you were in my room.”

It's pointless trying to deny it. “Well, I didn't come up to admire your tidy belongings.”

Arthur bites his collarbone playfully, and the sharp prick of his teeth goes straight to John's groin. He groans.

“What now?” Arthur asks. “You wanna pretend this didn't happen?”

“No,” John says honestly.

Arthur lets out a relieved sigh. “Okay, then, what now?”

John shrugs. What now indeed? “Not a clue, Morgan.”

Arthur snorts. “Well, that's fairly standard around here. We'll figure it out.”


End file.
